Hamblecha

Pregnant with your light,
my soul lies in plenitude
crying for a child.

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Without the Swelling of the Heart, No Story Is Worth Telling

In the silence between word and word, between day and day… in the silence between dream and dream, between knowledge and understanding, between thoughts and emotions… in that silence that exists before thought and feeling become one… in that moment of silence before the pushing forth of meaning, the foundations for the making of the world flowers from the depth of the abyss.

It’s in that flowering that the tides of the waters of my heart flow unrestricted; seeking who knows what;moving where they’re being pulled.

Without the swelling of those waters, without the emanation of that light, no story is worth telling.

Click here to listen to this Telling of the Oceanic Tryptic.

This Room Called Reality

I felt as if I had just woken up from a long, long dream in which I had been many, many beings: man, woman, criminal, judge. Where I had been a saint and a sinner. A fish. I had seen myself as daughter and mother. Lover. I was the betraying one and the one who cried in desperation after being betrayed.

I had had many dreams and I had seen myself lost in all those dreams, in all those worlds. I remember myself collecting pieces of me, calling them my companions. Members of a group that searched for an idea, an illusion that we called reality. Futile enterprise. For nothing in that dream could be called reality.

There is only this room. Only this chair. Only me and no other. I am where I have always been and there is no one else. I have always remained in the here and now, even throughout all those changes of form and vision, immersing myself into the hellish vistas of pain and unending suffering with the hope of forgetting the real world, searching for heavenly spheres of life and peace and happiness–eternal happiness–only to be able to forget the stark reality of the here and now. That here I was again, all alone. Nowhere to go in this room called Reality.

My Sacred Prayer

One day this bubble of existence will burst into a million pieces, sending fire and light, and spread it all through creation.

Or maybe it will dissolve into the liquid nothingness of the solar waters that flow from that sunset that’s been waiting to come for all eternity.

It will then be so that every experience I ever had, every word I ever said, every pain I ever caused, and every hope I ever gave will turn to be just the vibrant resonance, just the booming ocean, just the happy dance, and dissolve in that ocean of experience and move amongst your shadows as meaningless signs and sights.

May I never live through that!
May the memory of me fade away in time.
May my soul not be important.
May my life not be object of remembrance below or above.
May I not be significant.

May my shadows be forgot and go their way, where the shadows go and the light of Her eyes shine brightly.

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The Futures that Were.

The future used to be so much better before it got so mangled in recent pasts.

I’ve been shopping around for a better future. I might have to make one myself. I can probably put something together from a couple of futures I used to have that never got used.

Or perhaps I will just drop them all, stop looking in the past for all the futures I might one day want and the ones I might come to fear, leave the future in all its styles way behind and let it vanish into the distant past like my shadow with the coming of the night.

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In this Center of Life

In the solitude of the night I stay, and know that all the words and all the stories are lumps of life and meaning; and in the center I find myself trapped in an island, surrounded by life, all rushing at me at the same time.

In this center of life, I can’t distinguish anything at all. There is no name. There is no God. There is no hell. There is no movement of time and space; just the glorious silence; just the breath rushing in and going out; just her touch; the soft fingers of life holding, moving around, dancing around me.

In pain and joy, her hands play with the silent center. It moves. Sometimes I play with her by moving, talking. The light pulls my arm. The wind moves. The face looks and smiles when she looks back, and in the center of this magnificent womb, what can there be if not the warm embrace, the kiss of her ecstasy? How can there be anything but the loving kiss of the angel of death?

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For Lack of Mastery, Humanity Became Enslaved

One day, the gods came together and reflected on the power humans had over creation, and how they were growing in wisdom and knowledge under the light of fire.

These were the times before the first dawn. These were the times before the sun first appeared to light the expanse of heaven.

The fire was the companion of humans in that long, long night before the first dawn.

But the humans did not know the secrets of fire; how to light it, how to keep it, how to control it.

One day, the humans let the cold of the night to kill their fire. They were now powerless and hungry, and the cold of night was slowly erasing the future of the human beings. They were to die like the darkness before the coming of dawn.

The gods of that time knew that the age of humans was coming, and that humans were going to govern the earth as the sun will govern the heavens.

The gods conspired.

They exchanged words.

They became of one mind.

The gods decided to enslave the human race. They send to the humans the fire breather, and eater of fire.

She who forges fire in her womb came to men, with a message from the gods.

She told them to open their bodies, at the solar plexus, and take their hearts out. To offer their hearts to the gods, in exchange for fire.

For as long as they open their bodies, and offer their hearts to the gods, the humans will have fire.

The tribes of men agreed, because they were cold, hungry, and afraid.

This was the beginning of the Slave Gods, and the demand for sacrifice.

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